Looks Can Be Deceiving
by katshampoo
Summary: Marceline's life isn't really going anywhere. Besides playing the occasional gig with her band, she's stuck working at her parent's music store. Just when she's about to accept a life of mediocrity, a new girl in town shakes up her life in ways she never expected. College/University AU. Bubbline. Anticipate an M rating in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1 - Disarm

**Hi! This is just an introduction - I plan on making the future chapters nice and beefy.**

 **Anyways, thanks for reading. I hope it doesn't suck too badly. :)**

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It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm eating a bag of spicy cheetos. Breakfast of champions, right?

I'm working the morning shift at my family's store, Abadeer's Music Emporium. I know, I know, stupid name. My parents thought of it decades ago and I guess it just stuck. Sadly, the interior of the store is even more outdated than the name. We're in desperate need of a makeover but business is way too slow. I blame Spotify.

The store has three departments – one for musical instruments, one for CD's and vinyls, and another is a practice space/recording studio that we rent out to local bands. My brother, Marshall, is in charge of the instruments. He also charges 30 bucks a pop for music lessons. Honestly, that's not a bad deal. He's pretty much the best instructor I know. _Okay, maybe second best._

I lean back in the worn leather chair and prop my feet up on the counter. I bring a cheese-encrusted finger to my mouth and glance around. I'm working the vinyl room this morning and it's absolutely dead. We've been open for an hour and a half and not a single fucking customer has walked through the door.

I wipe the remaining cheese residue on my jeans – come on, don't act like you've never done that – and pull out my phone. Tonight my band is playing our first PAID gig and I should probably be more prepared than I am. We've rehearsed a whole lot but we haven't exactly hammered out the other details. . . like, a set list for one. Wardrobe? I don't even know how I'm getting to this place let alone what I'm wearing tonight. I moan in frustration and sink further into the depths of the ancient desk chair. I'm too stressed to deal with this right now.

You know what always calms me down though? Funny animal videos. I scroll idly through a list of youtube search results, ignoring the fact that a bit of cheese dust has smeared on my screen.

 _Guilty puppy refuses to_ … seen it.

 _Hairless cat takes bath in_... seen it.

 _Two hamsters sharing a_ … seen it.

 _Death-metal Cockatoo Screams into a Cup._ This is new.

I press the play button and watch as a large white bird trots in furiously from the corner of the screen. Without warning, it picks up a small plastic cup in its talon and screams, admiring the acoustics of her little bird voice.

Oh my Glob, I can't breathe. This stupid bird… and its stupid little cup. I'm laughing so hard that I'm crying. I'm laughing so hard that my ribs start to hurt. I'm laughing so hard that I _definitely_ didn't notice someone walk through the front door.

After watching the video a few more times, I finally manage to contain myself.

"Stupid, dumb, cute, cute bird…" I mutter under my breath as I wipe some moisture from the corners of my eyes.

That's when I look up from my phone, over the counter, and right at _her._ I feel my cheeks ignite and think I'd very much like to spontaneously combust right now. She's staring directly at me. She's giggling, no, she's full on laughing at me.

Why she's even in this store is beyond me. She's wearing a bright pink blazer with a tight, white pencil skirt and matching pink stilettos that I imagine are incredibly uncomfortable. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a neat bun and pink-rimmed glasses adorn her perfectly contoured face. If I wasn't so embarrassed, I'd probably admit that she's actually rather stunning… but right now, my foremost thought is that she looks like a fucking Barbie doll that's working on its law degree. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure that's the premise to a movie. Yeah. She looks like the chick from Legally Blonde and even though I kind of liked that movie, I don't appreciate random strangers encroaching upon my privacy and making me feel like a fool. Sure, that may sound a little dramatic – this is a store, after all – but she made me feel stupid and I may be a tiny bit butthurt.

I try to collect myself and wonder how this preppy stranger has caused my confidence to waver.

"You know, we don't sell Justin Beiber on vinyl here."

She doesn't say anything. She simply ignores my comment and makes her way towards the middle of the room, to the isle marked 'H through N.' I watch out the corner of my eye as she casually browses through albums. I can only imagine what she's looking for. Hanson? NSYNC? Hell, maybe she's looking for the Legally Blonde soundtrack, although I'm positive that doesn't even exist on vinyl. I lazily spin in the desk chair, a dumb grin plastered on my face, as I propose one lame band after another. I notice she's amassed a small pile of albums and I find myself eager to judge her assumedly shitty taste in music.

Growing up in a music store has sort of ruined me. To be honest, I'm pretty pretentious when it comes to music. I've tried to be open-minded but I can't help but loathe most of the garbage that plays on the radio. You can't consider yourself a musician if someone else is writing your songs and playing your instruments for you. That's not music - _that's cheating_. Why should jerks like Justin Beiber be making millions when guys like my brother, _who plays fifteen friggin' instruments_ , have to drown themselves in loans just to stay afloat? But I digress…

I run a hand through my dark hair – _so many split ends, damn I need a haircut_ – and observe Barbie, attorney-at-law, as she approaches the counter. She's got four or five albums stuffed under the crook of her arm.

It takes a good bit of effort to pull myself out of the chair. I notice there's a rather discernable imprint of my butt practically embossed into the seat. As the girl gets closer I become increasingly aware of how absolutely hideous I look today. There's a stark contrast between her crisp, clean blazer and my wrinkled and stained plaid shirt. I rub a palm against my jeans in a futile attempt to conceal the cheese stain I made not even ten minutes ago. I grunt in disappointment, making a mental note not to wear this outfit to the gig tonight.

She's at the counter now and I seize the opportunity to check her out up close. I can't explain it, but there's something quite bizarre about how _perfect_ this chick is. I can't find a single hair out of place on her strawberry blonde head. I'm both fascinated and disturbed by her flawless peach complexion and the rows of pearly whites she revealed through a polite smile. Even the way she stands, tall and poised. She's got the posture of Michelle Obama.

"Hello?"

My trance is broken and I turn my attention to the stack of albums that's been placed neatly on the counter. Oh, that's right. I work here. Get it together, Marceline.

"Hi. Did you find everything alright?" I pull a small calculator out of a nearby drawer. Our register's broken so we handle thIngs old school.

"Yes, thank you. You have quite the menagerie here."

I anticipate the worst as I thumb through a few of her selections and I… wait. Elliott Smith, Led Zeppelin, Prince, Vampire Weekend. This isn't just good music, this is very good music from a variety of genres. My mouth hangs open unattractively as I ogle her merchandise.

"May I have the total please?" I notice a small smirk formed across her face. Something tells me she's used to throwing people off guard. I quickly add up her total.

"$19.50," I say, adding "You know, you've got a rad taste in music. I'm actually really impressed. I didn't expect someone so…"

Suddenly her eyebrows furrow and the corners of her lips turn like she's just sipped gross, expired milk.

"Someone so what?" she interrupts. Her once melodic voice sounds intensely bitter. I try to interject but she holds up her manicured hand and I am immediately silenced.

"You know what," her eyes search back and forth manically until they land upon my nametag, "Marceline," my name sounds acidic on her tongue. "Looks can be deceiving."

She gathers the albums gingerly in her arms, reaches into her purse and retrieves a crisp twenty dollar bill, slamming it on the counter. "Keep the change."

With that, she marches towards the door, her stilettos clicking against the linoleum with each fervent step.

Before my brain can even begin to process the events that just transpired, she turns back towards the counter.

"By the way," her smirk has returned "I kind of like Justin Beiber," and with that, she disappears.

I just stand there, staring at Jefferson's smug face peering up at me from the twenty dollar bill.

What the hell just happened and who was that girl?


	2. Chapter 2 - Dammit

"How the hell do you eat that stuff? Seriously Marcie, how is your mouth not on fire right now?"

I roll my eyes and ignore the interrogation, opting to add a few more squirts of Sriracha to my already saturated bowl of ramen… you know, for good measure. What can I say, I have an affinity for all things spicy.

It's 12:30 in the afternoon and, per usual, Marshall and I are crowded in the world's tiniest breakroom for our routine lunch together. Once upon a time this room was a bathroom, up until Dad decided we didn't need a men's _and_ a women's room. Take out the toilet, throw in a few chairs, a mini-fridge (stocked full of beer, of course), and an antique microwave and you've got yourself an Abadeer breakroom.

During lunch, we leave the store in the capable hands of our only other employee, Tiffany. Let me be frank – Tiffany is a weird little dude. He's young – fifteen, homeschooled, I think – and he's got this long, luxurious blonde hair that would make most teen girls green with envy. For some reason, he's developed this need to compete with me for Marshall's affection. I'm quite sure he hates me, actually. One time, after Marshall complimented him on his sales for the day, I overheard him talking to himself and suddenly burst into maniacal laughter. I can't prove it, but I swear I heard him mention my name.

Our lunch is interrupted by Tiffany's sudden appearance in the breakroom. He's got money in his hand and he's waving it like a round like some kind of monkey. This kid is so bizarre.

"Can I break a hundred?" he says, his voice much louder than necessary to speak with people mere feet away.

"No," I say bluntly, not lifting my eyes away from the titillating food creation seated before me.

I can feel his eyes shooting daggers in my direction. Despite my answer, he just stands there in his weird pink shirt and his weird shorts that sit way too high above his waist. He tentatively rubs a finger against the sparse hairs that cover his upper lip and turns his attention towards my brother.

"Marshall!" he says, continuing to wave the bill in his fist. "Can I break a hundred?"

Marshall looks up from the table and gives a placating smile. "No can do, little dude. We don't have enough cash in the till." I blink a few times in disbelief. What the hell, man? I literally just said that!

"Hey Tiffany," I say, trying to conceal the impish smile that my mouth wants to form. "If I told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?"

It takes a moment for his brain to realize what I've asked. Once it clicks, he braces himself and guffaws, clearly amused with my question. "No friggin' way! Why the heck would I do something like that!"

"No, no. Of course you wouldn't," I say in a patronizing tone. I gesture towards Marshall with my fork. He seems oblivious to my little ruse. "But… what if _Marshall_ asked you to jump?"

Tiffany's brow creases and I can all but see the gears turning in his head. I'm surprised he's not fondling his stupid mustache right now. He's got this disturbing obsession for the, like, six hairs on his upper lip.

"Is there water under this bridge?" he contemplates while caressing his beloved 'stache. I guess I spoke too soon, Freak.

"Hey Tiffany, isn't there a customer waiting for you?" Marshall asks calmly, effectively ending the conversation. Tiffany nods and disappears out the door.

Marshall and I don't operate under the normal brother/sister dynamic. Our mom died of breast cancer when I was seven years old and Dad's been mostly out of the picture since, too busy with his producing career to bother with us. He relinquished ownership of the store to Marshall and I, like some kind of shitty consolation prize. Occasionally he'll send us some money but we put it right back into the store. I honestly can't remember the last time I saw him… was it two months ago or three? What a sorry excuse for a father.

Being five years older, Marshall took it upon himself to look after me because Dad sure as hell wasn't gonna do it. I guess you could say he raised me, but it's more complicated than that. He took on a triple-threat role of brother, guardian, and best friend. The guy deserves some serious credit – he managed to put himself through college (music theory, obviously), take the reins of the family business, **and** he made sure I lived past my nineteenth birthday (although Simon helped, too; Marshall shouldn't get _all_ the credit). Pretty impressive for a guy who can't make ramen without melting the styrofoam container.

I bring a steaming forkful of noodles to my mouth and slurp vigorously, resulting in an obnoxious sound that goes unnoticed by Marshall. I glance at my brother from across my meal and notice he seems less unkempt than usual today. He's wearing a neatly ironed plaid button-down over his favorite Megadeth shirt I gave him a few birthdays ago. There's a distinct look of effort in his hair style and his face is freshly shaven. Looks like someone woke up on the _right_ side of the bed this morning…

"Hot date tonight?" I mumble, still chowing down on a bite of noodle. I swallow and release a contented sigh, relishing the aftertaste of Siracha on my tongue. Ahhh, so spice.

"Actually…" he begins. I detect just the slightest tinge of red arising to the surface of his porcelain cheeks.

"MARSHALL. LEE. ABADEER." I say, just a tad overzealous. There may or may not be chunks of noodles flying from my mouth right now. "My dear brother, do you have intentions of entertaining a lady this evening?!"

Marshall smirks coyly and takes a bite of his tomato and mozzarella sandwich. He's a vegetarian now. What a nerd.

"Give me the deets, man!" I barely notice the rapid gesticulations my hands are making. I look like a mime on crack. "Who is she? Where'd you meet? Does she like any good music?"

I can feel the blood rushing to my head as the barrage of questions escapes my lips. I can't tell who's more excited right now, him or me. It's been so long since Marshall's had a girlfriend and if anyone deserves to be happy, it's this guy right here.

"Percy set us up. She's a graduate student at Ooo U. We've been texting for a few days, but I still don't know that much about her. She seems cool. I'm really excited, Marcie…"

Percy Grummel – my brother's best friend and total closet case. He and Marshall are both adjunct professors at the nearby college, Ooo University. Marshall teaches musical anthropology while Percy teaches drama. Due to his crazy schedule, Marshall only teaches one class per semester.

"Do you know what she looks like?" Marshall and I tend to gravitate towards the same kind of girl: feminine, petite, and ideally a little unique. I'm so sick of run-of-the-mill, cookie-cutter chicks with the same hair, same makeup, and same personality. Someone needs to find whatever factory they're assembled at and shut it down.

"She's not on facebook, twitter, or Instagram so I haven't seen any pictures. Percy swears she's smokin' hot though."

I briefly plant my face in my hands and massage my eyes in their sockets. Percy's so gay he wouldn't know a 'smokin' hot' woman if she burned a hole through his retina. Call me shallow but you've got to admit, it's important to have some type of physical attraction to the person you're dating.

"So… what _do_ you know about her?" I can feel my excitement about the prospects of this date waning by the second.

"Well, she uses complete sentences when she texts. Good grammar is always a plus in my book. She's your age so she must be smart to have gotten her bachelor's early. She seems pretty independent, too – she's got a car and her own place – that's good, right?" He looks at me as though my approval will somehow validate his interest in this girl.

I nod thoughtfully and resume slurping up my ramen. I just want Marshall to be happy, and hey, maybe this mystery chick is the one for him. It's too soon to tell, but she sounds a hell of a lot smarter than the mindless groupies Marshall usually brings home. Maybe I should take a page out of her book and stop slathering myself all over social media. After all, privacy is practically a luxury these days. Going forward, I vow to be a little more open-minded about my brother's potential romantic interests. I've been awfully judgmental in the past and I know I've been influential in some of Marshall's breakups. …But I'm older now and I, too, have experienced heartbreak. It's time to hang up the role of bratty little sister and take on wingman for a change.

"By the way," Marshall states, finishing the last bite of his sandwich, "I'm taking her to your show tonight."

* * *

I'm finding it difficult to ignore how satisfying Keila's fingers feel as she runs them through my hair, up and down, her fingernails grazing lightly against my scalp. This girl is pure fucking magic with those fingers – it's no wonder she's such a good guitarist.

Keila stands behind me and lets her hands settle upon my shoulders. She's been begging to do my makeup for years now, and in celebration of our first PAID show, I've finally agreed to be her canvas. She gazes at my reflection in the dressing room mirror, admiring her handiwork. She bends down so her face is level with mine and brings her mouth to my ear. My body shivers when I feel her warm breath against my skin.

"You look gorgeous, Marce." Her voice is rich and buttery and I'm immediately reminded of just how euphonic her harmonies can be. I glance at myself in the mirror and can't help but agree… I certainly clean up nicely. My gray eyes seem illuminated underneath the smoky eyeshadow and thick winged eyeliner. She's painted my lips a deep crimson and dusted on a magic powder that seems to have summoned my cheekbones from a dark abyss. My outfit isn't too shabby, either. I'm wearing my tightest skinny jeans, black calf-high boots, and a black & red lace tank top that reveals more of my cleavage than I'd realized but, whatever, it's an enormous improvement from earlier today. I even made sure to trim my nails, a trademark of musicians and lesbians alike.

I spin around to get a better look at Keila and, damn, does she look good. She's wearing a short, olive green cocktail dress that compliments her cinnamon skin and hugs her curves perfectly. Her curly tresses have been pulled back with a matching silk scarf and she's wearing a gloss that makes her lips look impossibly full. Keep your hands to yourself, Marceline.

Keila and I have some not-so-platonic history. We were in jazz band together our freshman year of high school… before we realized how lame it was and started skipping class in lieu of pimply boys and poorly tuned saxophones. We eventually formed our own band, the Scream Queens, along with our friends Bongo and Guy. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I figured out I like girls -a lot - and Keila was a willing participant in my experiments. Little did I know that our casual hookups would result in me falling for her, _and Glob,_ did I fall hard. There's just one problem, though. Keila isn't gay. Well, not in the sense that she'd ever actually date a woman. She likes the attention; hell, she even admitted it. In retrospect, she's always had this thing for Marshall but he was never interested. Maybe she decided I was the next best thing. I mean, the resemblance between my brother and I is pretty uncanny. We have the same inky black hair, porcelain skin, lanky body, not to mention musical prowess … come to think of it, I'm basically Marshall with tits.

A few years back, after sharing a bottle of cheap vodka and indulging in some medical-grade weed, I told Keila the truth about my feelings for her. There's something truly pathetic about saying 'I love you' to someone only for them to assume you're joking and burst into laughter. When she realized I wasn't kidding, she gave me the 'you're my best friend, we're just having fun' spiel. She said her services as a fuckbuddy were always available should I ever be interested. It pains me to admit I gave in to her offer that night. Pathetic, indeed.

After my confession, I made a promise to distance myself emotionally from her. No more sleepovers, no more cuddling up to Disney movies, no more late-night make out session, and _especially_ no more sex. After being turned down a couple of times, I think she got the hint. Over time, things between us cooled down and our friendship normalized, more or less. She still flirts mercilessly with me but at least the expectations are gone… but every now and then, when the chemistry is just right, I have to battle tooth and nail to stop the nostalgia from taking over.

There's a knock on the dressing room door. "It's open," I shout, conjuring up enough mental dexterity to pry my eyes away from Keila. In walk Bongo and Guy carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels and a few shot glasses.

"15 minutes until show time! Liquid courage, anyone?" Bongo says, lining the glasses up on the counter.

"Sure," I beam, pulling myself out of my chair and smoothing the front of my jeans.

"Whoa, you two look great tonight!" Bongo exclaims as he eyes Keila and me, almost spilling the fiery liquid he's pouring into the glasses.

"Yeah," Guy agrees, "You two should use those looks to our advantage. We get 75% of the cover charge and an additional dollar for every drink bought while we're playing so make sure you get the crowd to stay put." Ugh, Guy and his money. He's like Scrooge McDuck with dollar signs instead of eyes. Then again, Guy has always been the driving force behind getting the band to the next level. We wouldn't be here tonight without his connections.

I grab my shot and down it quickly, chasing it with a sip of the now diluted coke I had with dinner earlier. I can feel the whisky's heat traveling down my esophagus and settling in my stomach.

"Fuck our looks. Our music is what'll keep em' here, right Marcie?" Keila says, brazenly snaking her arm around my waist. I can't tell if it's the adrenaline surging through my body or the alcohol doing its thing, but I relent just a little into Keila's embrace.

"Right," I say, savoring the energy that seems to radiate from within the room. If only we can keep this up during the show.

The rest of the band take their shots and we confirm the set list for the twentieth time that hour.

* * *

"Five minutes till show time," Guy mouths, holding up five fingers. It's surprisingly loud backstage. The sound of the crowd is flooding every crevice of the venue and making it difficult for us to tune up. Guy plays a note on the keyboard and Keila and I echo it back accordingly – our first song is in standard tuning so I'm not entirely worried. The house requested the majority of our songs be upbeat pop-punk covers that won't incite any bar fights but can still keep the crowd alive. We're happy to oblige under the condition we can throw in a few original tunes, too. 'Pop-punk' isn't exactly our genre but it's hard to complain when you're getting paid.

I adjust my bass' strap to sit more comfortably on my shoulder and buff away a smudge I notice on one of the tuning keys. I take this moment to admire my instrument as it truly is a thing of beauty. It's the Fender American Standard Precision bass in olympic white, complete with a tortoiseshell pickguard, maple fingerboard, fender high mass vintage bridges, and a custom shop '60s split single-coil pickup. This exquisite combination of wood and metal is one of the few things my mom left me and is undoubtedly one of my most cherished possessions (aside from Hambo, of course). I pluck the E string, admiring the deep, powerful vibrations this beast elicits. My fingers are itching to play something.

I wonder if Marshall and his date found the bar alright. We've got about a minute left so I retrieve my phone from my back pocket. Two unread texts. The first one's from Marshall, sent just a few seconds ago. He must have read my mind.

' _Seriously 10 bucks per person? Is there some kind of family discount? I'm j/k. break so many legs, little sis. BTW my date is really hot. Im totally digging her. Ill introduce you after the show.'_

I smirk at his use of our inside joke, 'break so many legs.' When I was little, I didn't understand the euphemism. However, my underdeveloped critical thinking skills lead me to believe that more broken legs should equal more luck. Yeah, I was sort of morbid as a kid.

I swipe to the next text and feel my heart jolt a little. It's from my dad, whom I had assumed forgot about my existence.

' _best of luck at the show tonight, honey. I wish I could be there. I love you. Dad.'_

 _I wish I could be there._ You CAN fucking be here, you stupid prick. What the hell is stopping you? Your 'career' that's obviously more important than your kids? Your family?

My inner turmoil is brought to a halt by the screech of microphone feedback and the booming voice of an announcer. I quickly shove my phone back into my pocket and prepare to go on stage. "Thank you all for coming out tonight," the announcer addresses the crowd. "We've lined up some fresh talent for your enjoyment and I think you're gonna like them. Please put your hands together for the Scream Queens!"

Applause fills the room as the curtains rise. We take our position at the front of the stage and Keila starts picking the intro to our first song. I join in with the bassline and belt out the first verse.

" _It's alright / to tell me / what you think / about me._

 _I won't try / to argue / or hold it / against you…"_

We sound amazing and the crowd seems to agree. I look around the room and I'm pleased by the decent turnout; almost everyone is on their feet and a ton of people are singing along. The vibe seems to boost my confidence that much more. I thrash about on stage in a manner that's authentic to Blink-182 - think of a late 90's music video. I seriously can't believe people get paid to do this… I can't believe I'M getting paid to do this. This is so fucking fun.

I scan the audience and catch a glimpse of jet black hair. It's Marshall! I reveal a toothy grin and give him a quick wave before the chorus hits. And that's when I notice her. Again. The girl from the store today, donning her signature color. I'm surprised I didn't notice her before, really. Her bright pink sundress seems almost alien amid the sea of rockers wearing black band tees. She's standing directly left of Marshall, and I can't say for sure, but I think she's scowling at me. We lock eyes momentarily and it occurs to me that his arm is around her shoulder. The chick from the store… she's Marshall's date.

" _But everybody's gone / and I've been here for too long_

 _To face this on my own / well I guess this is growing up_

 _Well I guess this is growing up."_

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 **I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. Sorry if the story is a little predictable so far. I'll spice things up in the next chapter.**

 **I'm aiming to update every Friday. Please let me know what you think. :)**


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